Page 3 of Mastered By Bishop

And for the first time in thirty-six years, it feels like I’m finally home.

Chapter One

Two Years Later

Margot

“Hey, Chef, try this!”

A spoon appears, hovering just inches from my face, laden with a deep, rich sauce that smells heavenly. I instinctively open my mouth, and when the sauce hits my tongue, I nearly moan in pleasure. It’s an explosion of taste, a complex layering of subtle sweetness and hints of earthiness, and for one blissful second, the world fades away.

Oh, I can already picture how this will pair with the steak Antoine is grilling, just like I knew it would when I developed tonight’s menu.

“You are the goddess of sauces, Camilla,” I tell our saucier, licking my lips and chasing the taste of the bordelaise she seems to have mastered to a T. “The customers are going to worship at your feet.”

My saucier preens like a peacock, turning back to her station. For a second, I stop to bask in the chaos of the kitchen. The pots simmering, pans sizzling, and air thick with the most magnificent of scents. A perfect blend of all the best chefs in one place, each a master of their craft. All of whom have trusted me to guide them.

A relationship I’ve developed in three weeks. Three weeks of living in Cathedral, working in its main restaurant, The Altar, as the head chef.

It feels like I’ve worked with these people much longer with how in sync we are. But it didn’t start that way. The previous head chef was a temperamental asshole who was rude to his staff and to the customers. Most of them were wary of me until I proved otherwise.

And now, this place runs like a well-oiled machine.

Has it really been just three weeks?

To think it almost didn’t happen. I nearly didn’t apply. I questioned whether I was ready to head a kitchen at twenty-four, whether the older chefs would even take me seriously, and whether I wanted to trade New Orleans for Reno. But the biggest roadblock of all was the owners.

The Steel Aces.

It’s no secret that the Cathedral and all the businesses in it are run and owned by the Steel Aces MC and the infamous Bishop Cassidy—a man who, in two short years, has built a reputation that rivals the most ruthless businessmen in the state.

A dangerous man. The kind that could make you disappear from the face of the earth without a trace. Heck, the rumors paint him as the devil himself—not that I would know, seeing as I’ve never met the man, but I’m inclined to believe them.

Yet, I applied to work for him.

And was hired.

I’m not naive about organized crime. I know all too well what these people can do. I saw it all around my neighborhood growing up. But I don’t know much about MCs. Maybe not knowing is worse, but something about this place called to me.

“Chef!” A server bursts through the pass, interrupting my thoughts as he zeros in on me. “Table ten is asking to have a word with you.”

I move to the side as another server rushes past, a tray laden with dirty dishes. “Is there a problem with his food?”

“Oh no, I think he just wants to give his compliments for the meal. It’s a full house tonight, Chef. Everyone is raving about the night’s specials.”

“Is that so?” I say with a smile. “Well then, let’s go hear what table ten has to say.”

The server chuckles before moving on to grab the order for the next table. I take a quick look around the kitchen to make sure everything is running smoothly before nodding to the sous chef to take charge. I duck out, with every intention of making it quick.

The dining room hits me the way it always does. A slow ballad plays overhead, and people of all shapes and ages are seated at our tables, laughing and chatting as they eat. It’s lively, and it’s everything I ever dreamed of. My lip trembles from the onslaught of emotions, forcing me to bite it hard before I can break down into a sniveling mess. I take off the toque and squeeze it tight, trying to stay calm before tucking it under my arm.

A voice calls out to me the moment I’m through the doors, and then another and another, all of them laden with compliments for one dish or another. I respond to some with a smile, stopping for a quick chat with others even as I weave my way to table ten.

It’s a lone customer. I spot him before he does me. He’s slumped forward, nose practically buried in the plate he’s eating from, a bottle of wine resting by his elbow. My smile is wide and bright as I stop by his table. He looks up, eyes narrowing for a second before his mouth stretches in a smirk when he notices my uniform. “I knew it!” he laughs, slapping his hand on the table and causing the dishes to rattle. “I fucking knew it!”

“Sir,” I say politely, my smile wavering a bit when I realize that the wine bottle is nearly empty and the glaze in his eyes screams wasted. The seat across from him is empty, which means he drank the entire thing by himself. “My name is Chef Margot. Did you request to see me?”

“Yes. The moment I tasted the food, I had to see who made it. I fucking knew there was a bombshell in that kitchen.” He laughs again, reaching for the napkin to wipe the corner of his mouth. “I’m always saying that women should be in the kitchen, always. Men have no fucking business cooking for people anyway.”